


with envy for the solid ground

by thegildedbat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21591562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegildedbat/pseuds/thegildedbat
Summary: a series of vignettes in a storm
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	with envy for the solid ground

They have lived in Essos for one year and a half of another and still Sansa tints her hair with henna to cover the natural auburn color. At first Sandor balked at the idea of wasting money on hair dye, but after Sansa explaining it was just another way to keep her unrecognizable and therefore safe, he had relented with a grunt. She never told him that it was Petyr’s idea to begin with. After all, Petyr was dead, and speaking of him made Sansa’s belly twist and teeth clench. The mere mention of his name sent Sandor into rages that reminded her of the Hound. She wanted to believe the Hound was dead—needed to believe it—and so no mention of Petyr Baelish was ever made in the small villa.

Her hair is longer now too. The length of it scrapes at her bottom just like her lady mother’s had the last time Sansa saw her. She feels like a woman grown… only she has no husband, no children, and no keep to call her own. The only thing that is a keen acknowledgement of her womanhood is how her summer silk dresses glide over her curves, and the way Sandor looks at her when she wears them. 

She knows that the whores Sandor visits, and has visited since a week from their arrival in Volantis, all have red hair. Irra, Sansa’s Meereenese handmaiden, tells her so. Unlike Westeros, servants have no qualms about gossiping about their masters, and besides, most of the masters here have no reason to care. Sansa hears whispers about the pleasure houses of Lys and the wine soaked bacchanals held by rich merchants. This land is a strange land. But there is nothing to be done for it. Sansa continues to tint her hair and Sandor continues his weekly visits to the brothels.

It is what Irra and Sansa are preparing to do when Sandor arrives home today, earlier than usual. He slams the oak door of the villa, the force of it shivers the frame and even makes the clay bowl full of henna on the table in front of her rattles when she is two doors down in her own chambers.

Irra clucks her tongue in disapproval as she pours water into the bowl to dilute the dye. “Master always is so angry,” she says.

“Sandor,” Sansa reminds her. “His name is Sandor. He doesn’t like being called master.”

Sandor never ceases to snarl at the girl when she addresses him as such, but Irra has spent all of her life in bondage until being liberated by the Dragon Queen. She left the pyramids of Meereen behind when the bloody flux first began to wrap the city in its clutches, yet Irra still calls the Targaryen mhysa, Valyrian for mother.

More banging sounds come from down the hall and Sansa bites her lip, trying to decide if it is wiser to check on Sandor or to leave him be. She wonders why he is home so much earlier than usual though, and her curiosity has the better of her as she moves from the table, pausing their preparation. She shrugs a robe over her shift, tying it tightly around her waist. Irya gives her an exasperated look as they leave her chambers but follows her down the hall nonetheless.

The pair find Sandor sitting in the room the acts as their solar, trying with not much luck to undo the straps of his right vambrace.

“Let me,” Sansa murmurs as she takes to her knees before him, shooing his large hand out of the way.

“What a pretty squire you are, little bird,” he grunts.

“Hardly,” Sansa says with a frown as she continues to fiddle with one particularly bothersome strap. “What brings you home so early, my lord?”

Sandor’s eyes darken at title, as they usually do when Sansa forgets herself and uses it, as she usually does. It seems the many moons shared under a roof with Sandor Clegane still cannot break her of Septa Mordane’s lessons.

“Am I intruding?” he asks snidely. 

Sansa levels her gaze with his as she abruptly lets the vambrace she has finally loosened clatter to the floor.

“Of course not,” she says as she fixes a small smile on her lips. “Irra and I were just about to tint my hair again.”

As Sansa is close to him, still knelt on the floor while he is sitting, he lifts a small lock of her hair, rolling the lightly curling strands between his fingers, a far off look in his eye.

“Sandor?” Sansa eventually murmurs.

Her voice brings him back to her and he sighs. “Laertes made mention of some sort of storm heading our way. A monsoon, he calls it. I’ve never seen a rain storm bring a city to a grinding halt.”

Irya makes a noise of surprise from her position in the corner of the room and the pair turn to her, both forgetting the girl was there.

“My pardon, Lady Sansa… Master—uh, Ser… no…,”

“Oh, spit it out, girl!” Sandor barks to her, garnering another stern look from Sansa.

“The monsoon is a terrible storm and only comes many years apart. My father, he said the storm was from the Lord of Light himself, as punishment for the masters.”

Sandor snorts. “Well your father was wrong. The masters are gone and still the lord is shitting on us.”

“Must we do anything to prepare ourselves, Irra?” Sansa asks.

“There is nothing to be done, my lady. We just this week have gone to the market and filled the stores for a whole month in advance. All we can do is wait for the storm to pass and hope R’hollor is not so angry with his children this year.”


End file.
